One Police Plaza

by William Caunitz

  One Police Plaza

  William J. Caunitz

  MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  For my daughters

  BETH ANN and TAFFY

  1

  TUESDAY, June 9

  His body sprawled over the rumpled sheets, legs sticking over the end of the bed. He opened his eyes, attempting to focus them on the telephone.

  “Lieutenant, we got a little problem. Can you come in to the Squad?”

  “I’m on the way.” Malone grunted, fumbling the receiver back, and sitting up. He glanced down at the vacant pillow next to him and remembered that she had not wanted to stay the night. The shrunken blood vessels inside his head were throbbing from last night’s retirement party. He looked over at the digital clock on the wicker night table. It clicked over to nine-sixteen. Only the Job would get a man with a hangover out of bed on his day off. “A little problem,” he muttered and got out of bed.

  Dan Malone made the turn into Elizabeth Street twenty minutes later. Every time he came on the Job he expected to find something changed. But the usual Chinese women in their black pajamas and straw sandals were still shuffling along, accompanied by their daughters in designer jeans. Eternally bored men leaned against doorways, cigarettes hanging from their mouths. Nat Hymowitz’s clothing store on the corner of Elizabeth and Hester was open for the early-morning hondling.

  Malone loved the smells of Chinatown best: the confection of fresh ginger and Chinese cabbage and onions never failed to give him a high; each season of the year had its own distinct mixture. It was June and the smells swept gently over the neighborhood. He parked at the fire hydrant in front of the Sun Hong Wu restaurant, grabbed the vehicle identification plate from behind the visor, and tossed it onto the dashboard. Across the street was the hundred-year-old yellow cream stationhouse with the black fire escapes arranged down the center of its four-story façade. Nineteen Elizabeth Street: the Fifth Precinct, the only damn building in New York City with DC current. Radio cars lined the curb, three-wheeled police scooters were parked on the sidewalk, and barriers and A-frames were stockpiled on the side of the stationhouse. The precinct’s flag was twisted around the pole, and the green globes by the door burned dimly in the clear morning light.

  Malone waved to the desk lieutenant as he entered the stationhouse, walked through the muster room, and went up the stairs; a narrow, winding passage of carved, Neo-Gothic wood; its majestic banister old and weak; its metal steps worn shiny by the feet of thousands of cops.

  Dan Malone was a tall, solidly built man with a long, thin nose and a head of sandy hair that was splotched with gray. His clothes were casual: beige trousers, blue blazer, and a white shirt, open. He was proud that he’d never been “made” as a cop.

  The detective squad room was standard issue. New green metal desks with antiquated typewriters were placed around the room. The door of the lieutenant’s office concealed a two-way mirror. The detention cage, crammed in a corner, contained a huge stuffed teddy bear perched on a stool. Someone had pinned a six-pointed sheriff’s badge to its chest and tucked an empty can of Rheingold and a toy machine gun into its folded paws. Steel mesh covered all the windows. Cardboard waste barrels were scattered about, the overflowing garbage topped with empty beer cans and pizza boxes.

  Det. Gus Heinemann sat typing reports with two fingers, his three hundred pounds squeezed up to the desk, his small eyes almost lost beneath a heavy, overhanging brow. Gus was known throughout the Job for his insatiable appetite and his addiction to playing dice. He was a familiar figure at precinct club meetings and police conventions, always in the center of the largest game looking to roll his point. Det. Patrick O’Shaughnessy, outfitted in his usual ensemble of polyester gaudiness, stood at the cabinets filing away his case folders.

  Heinemann looked up. “Ah, the lieutenant is in bright and early this morning.”

  “What’s so important to drag me in on my day off?” Malone asked, reaching over the carved gate, releasing the catch on the other side.

  “Sergeant Brady telephoned from One-four-one Chrystie Street. He said that they had a DOA that could be a problem. He wants you on the scene,” Heinemann said.

  “Did he say what they had?”

  “He only said that a problem had developed,” Heinemann said. Malone gave a knowing nod. “Who’s catching?”

  “I am,” Stern said.

  Jake Stern was a balding weightlifter who was always squeezing a hand grip. He had a large nose that had been shattered while he was doing bench presses at the Y. On the day in question, Jake had pressed two hundred pounds for the fifth time and was struggling to make the sixth. He was straining his arms upward when a fag ambled over and tickled his balls. The barbell and weights crashed down, tumbling Jake, bloodied and dazed, onto the floor. The other guy never knew what trouble was until that day.

  As Stern turned the unmarked police car into Canal Street, the lieutenant asked him if anything heavy had come in while he was on his RDO. Regular day off.

  Keeping his eyes fixed on the traffic inching its way toward the Holland Tunnel, Jake answered, “It’s been quiet. We caught a few grounders, but nothing heavy. Ya know, Lou, I’m getting tired of catching nothin’ but easy ones.” He addressed him as Lou, the diminutive of lieutenant that was routinely used in the NYPD.

  One of the two policemen standing in front of 141 Chrystie Street waved to the approaching detectives. “It’s on the third floor, Lou,” he said as they came up to him.

  The floor of the studio apartment was covered by grungy chipped linoleum that had been there at least fifty years. A kitchenette ran the length of the room. Next to the open window was a brass bed and a chest of drawers with a homemade paint job. The body of a nude white man stretched flat on his stomach lay on the sagging mattress of the bed. His face was at right angles, with the eyes open. Body fluid seeped from the nose and mouth into a puddle of phlegm next to the jaw. Blood had drained to the lower part of the body, causing dark blue discoloration of the lower torso. The neck and jaw had stiffened from the downward contractions of rigor mortis.

  Slumped into one of the chairs, her hand half obscuring her face, sat a woman in a wine-colored bathrobe pulled tightly around her waist. Her clear skin was streaked with mascara. She looked about twenty-four or -five. Stern eyed her as they entered. “Nice tits,” he whispered to the lieutenant.

  Sergeant Brady was standing over her, a wet, unlit cigar jutting out the side of his mouth. His face was deeply seamed and pitted by the acne of thirty years ago. “Good t’ see ya, Lou,” Brady said, a visible expression of relief crossing his face. He moved away from the woman to meet the detectives, stepping between the lieutenant and Stern. In a low, apologetic voice he said, “This caper ain’t exactly yours, but we weren’t sure how to handle it.” Brady scratched his head, looked over at the body, and announced, “A certain amount of finesse is needed on this one.…”

  “What’s the wrinkle, Sarge?” Malone said, glancing at the corpse.

  “He’s a priest,” Brady whispered.

  Malone moved over to the body, placing his palm down on the clammy skin. “How long?”

  The woman flicked her eyes to the lieutenant. “About two hours.”

  Malone grabbed a chair, dragged it to where she was sitting, and sat down facing her. “What’s your name?”

  “Mary Collins. He was a Monday-morning regular. He arrived around seven each week.…”

  As she talked he studied her face. High cheekbones that looked chiseled, smooth skin without any trace of hair. His initial suspicion hardened into certainty. Without speaking, he reached out and felt probingly under her chin. The surgeon’s thin line was there. He noticed her Adam’s apple and then looked down at her hands. They were large and not propo
rtioned to her thin, female body. He slid his hand inside the bathrobe and pushed it aside. The breasts were firm and had perfectly round aureoles that looked as though they had been press-stamped from a sheet of brown rubber and pasted on. He felt one. It was much too firm.

  “What was the name you were born with, Mary?”

  “Harold.”

  “Did you have your plumbing fixed?”

  She was insulted. “No.”

  Mary/Harold Collins stood up and bent forward, pulling a limp penis from between her legs. She then tugged the robe closed and sat back down, the perfect lady.

  “Did he know that you were a transvestite?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Tell me what happened?”

  “He arrived like usual and we went right to bed.” She shook her hair back and smoothed it with her hand. “He went down on me. Then he stopped and rolled me over on my stomach. He went into my behind and we were pumping each other when all of a sudden he screams ‘Jesus, forgive me,’ and collapsed. I thought he came. But I didn’t feel his chest heaving … hear the breathing.” She plastered her hands to her face, rocking from side to side. She was crying.

  “What a feeling to have someone die inside of you. God forgive me. I don’t know. I don’t know …”

  “Do you live here?”

  “No. I use this place for my tricks. My apartment is in Chelsea.”

  “Get dressed. I want you to leave with us.” Malone looked over at the sergeant. “How many people know about this?”

  “Nobody outside this room knows anything.”

  “Let’s make damn sure that it stays that way,” Malone said flatly. “Has he been I.D.’d?”

  Brady waved a brown leather wallet in front of his face. “The Reverend James Gavin of St. Anselm’s in Brooklyn.”

  Malone got up and moved over to the bed. He stared down at the cadaver for a second, then bent downward and picked up the end of the sheet that trailed off the bed. He tossed it over the body and walked back to Mary Collins, who once more had her face hidden. His tone was low, consoling. “Mary? Believe me when I tell you we’re just as anxious as you are to resolve this problem as expeditiously and discreetly as possible. Will you do whatever I say is necessary?”

  Mary Collins’s hands fell to her lap. She looked at the lieutenant. “I’m not going to take a fall. I have no intention of going inside and having to fight for my life. They keep us locked up with the general population.”

  Malone’s lips pursed with satisfaction. He nodded to the others. “You won’t have to,” he said.

  Malone telephoned the medical examiner’s office and arranged to have the on-duty M.E. standing by at the morgue to certify the death. Then he put through a call to the archdiocese, confident that the man on the other end would give him no problems. A product of the slums of Philadelphia, an expert on canon law and the head of the ecclesiastical shoofly unit that takes care of problems with rogue priests, Msgr. Terrance McInerney was used to receiving “important” telephone calls from the police. As the personal secretary to His Eminence, it was McInerney’s job to handle those unpleasant secular matters that always seemed to crop up.

  Malone picked up on the monsignor’s calm authority. “What can we do for you, Lieutenant?”

  “I am sorry to have to inform you, Monsignor, of the passing of Father James Gavin of St. Anselm’s in Brooklyn.”

  There was a pause on the line. Then, “May God have mercy on his soul. Can you tell me the circumstances of Father’s passing? Why are the police involved?”

  “Well, Monsignor, it appears that Father was walking down Chrystie Street this morning when he suffered a heart attack. Passers-by carried him into one of the nearby buildings. A young woman was kind enough to let them bring Father into her apartment to await the ambulance. Unfortunately he expired before help arrived. The people who carried him into her apartment left, leaving the poor woman alone with the body. When the police arrived she was hysterical.”

  “I can well understand the lady’s apprehension,” McInerney said smoothly.

  “I’ve contacted the medical examiner. Dr. Solomon Epstein is going to perform an immediate autopsy. You’ll be able to pick up the remains within a few hours.”

  The monsignor sighed. “I know Epstein. He’s all right. What floor did you say the lady lived on?”

  “The third.”

  “I see. Was Father Gavin wearing his clerical collar?”

  “No.”

  “How was identity ascertained?”

  “From the I.D. in his wallet.”

  “I see. Is there any problem with the press?”

  Malone thought he detected the first slight note of tension in the monsignor’s voice.

  “We’ve made sure that the incident was not put on the teletype or transmitted over the radio. Only a few people know what happened.”

  “And how is the young lady holding up?”

  “Fine. Although it happened at a particularly difficult time for her.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “She wants to leave New York City. She had been promised a job as a cocktail waitress in a Las Vegas hotel, but it fell through at the last moment. Then this unpleasantness …”

  “Perhaps we can repay her kindness. What’s her name?”

  “Harold.”

  A gasp, followed by stunned silence. Malone waited to let what he had said sink in. “He’s a transvestite who goes by the name of Mary Collins.”

  Deep breaths of anger were coming from the other end. “I am going to make arrangements with Sheehan’s Funeral Home to pick up Father’s body. I am also sending a representative from my staff to get Father Gavin’s personal effects. I want to thank you for your consideration in this delicate matter.”

  “I was happy to help, Monsignor.”

  “Will the official report have to mention anything about the lady?” Malone could feel the tension on the other end now.

  Malone paused a moment before he answered. He wanted the Powerhouse to know that they owed him one. “The lady? What lady, Monsignor? Father Gavin expired on the street from natural causes. He was alone.”

  It was after one and Epstein hadn’t called. Malone was at his desk trying to reduce the perpetual mound of paper when a thought crossed his mind: What if Gavin’s death was not natural? Would his ass be in a sling! He yanked up the phone and dialed.

  Epstein answered. “Don’t worry. It was natural. A nice, clean coronary occlusion.”

  “Thanks, Sol.”

  “Any time. Can’t talk now. I’m in the middle of dissecting a spleen.” Epstein hung up.

  Malone had one more call to make. He dialed Erica Sommers. When her cheerful voice came on the line he smiled and said, “Thanks for last night. You were wonderful.”

  “It was nice, wasn’t it? I’m sorry I couldn’t stay. I just had too much work to do today, and I knew you wouldn’t let me escape until the afternoon.”

  He laughed. “Complaints?”

  “On the contrary.”

  “What about tonight?”

  “I’m sorry but I’m busy tonight.”

  “What are you doing?”

  There was a pause. Then … “Daniel? I don’t question you and I don’t expect you to question me. They’re your rules.”

  “I’ll call you in a day or two.”

  “That’ll be nice.”

  Malone returned to his paper. The case folder in front of him read, “Anthony Sardillo M/W/33. Homicide by shotgun … February 12, 1938.” A department photograph of Sardillo lying on a rain-soaked driveway minus most of his head was stapled to the inside cover. Malone got a kick out of examining old photographs of crime scenes. The detectives in them all looked like Mr. Magoo with straw hats and cheap cigars.

  The semiannual “five”—DD5 Supplementary Complaint Report, the workhorse form of the Detective Division used to report all additional phases of an investigation—was stapled on top of the forty-odd-year accumulation of fives. Unsolved homici
des were never closed; department regulations required that the assigned detective submit at least two fives a year on each of his open homicide cases. The detective assigned to the Sardillo case had nothing to report, as usual.

  Malone knew the Sardillo case by heart; he knew all the open cases. He glanced over the five, signed it, and then tossed the bulging folder into the wire file basket.

  Stern and O’Shaughnessy had gone out to pick up lunch, hot heroes, two six-packs, and a pizza for Gus. The detectives were sitting around the squad room eating while Malone was in his office nibbling a strand of melted mozzarella off his eggplant parmigiana hero and reading another case folder.

  Stern had his feet up on the desk. He leaned forward and took a can of beer and peeled the top, tossing the tab over his shoulder. He gulped some and looked over at O’Shaughnessy who was sitting across from him.

  “You still seeing Foam?” Stern asked O’Shaughnessy.

  “Of course. You don’t give up a deal like that. Free bed and board and a screw whenever I want,” O’Shaughnessy said.

  “What’s it like to hump a broad who uses foam? Ain’t it messy?” Heinemann said.

  “No, it ain’t messy,” O’Shaughnessy snarled.

  Stern winked at Heinemann. “Hey, Pat. Does the foam come in different flavors?”

  “Yeah, Pat. How does the foam taste?” Heinemann asked.

  “How the fuck should I know?” O’Shaughnessy yelled. “You know that I don’t go down on women.”

  “Pity. You really should try it,” Stern said.

  The telephone rang and Heinemann answered it. He listened for a while, then said, “Right,” and hung up. Holding two slices of pizza pressed together, he got up and walked over to Malone’s office. He stuck his head inside and announced, “The inspector is on his way over.”

  Fifteen minutes later Insp. Nicholas Zambrano walked into the Fifth Squad. He was a gravel-voiced, ponderous man with thirty-three years in the department. His body was huge, but still hard and firm, except for his large belly. He had a swarthy face and enormous brown eyes and a warm Mediterranean smile that gave a clue to his inner warmth. But when he had to, Nicholas Zambrano could be a first-class prick.